


Follow the Leader

by silkstocking



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018-2019 NHL Season, Dallas Stars, M/M, Mentorship, Stars Finnish Mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkstocking/pseuds/silkstocking
Summary: Esa learns to mentor the kids. Klinger helps, in his own way.
Relationships: John Klingberg/Esa Lindell
Comments: 20
Kudos: 95
Collections: Hockey Holidays 2019





	Follow the Leader

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CatchAsCatchCan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatchAsCatchCan/gifts).

So. Having rookies is kind of annoying. 

Esa hasn’t known Miro all that long yet, but five minutes with the kid was long enough to understand that he’s far more mature and sensible than Esa was at his age. Or… has ever been, maybe. Honks would probably say so, which is why Esa tries to ignore Honks as much as possible. But the point is that, for some reason, Esa has been dragged to Ikea to help Miro furnish his shiny new apartment with cheap Swedish flatpack furniture that Esa is inevitably also going to have to help build, instead of hiring a person who knows about interior design to do all of this shit for him.

Esa tries not to laugh at the serious expression on Miro’s face as he’s earnestly trying to decide between two different and yet mostly identical coffee tables. Instead he pulls out his phone to send a picture of it to Klinger. 

_why am I here and not you? this is your homeland_

Klinger just sends back a row of laughing emojis. 

"You should get that one," Esa tells Miro, pointing to one of the tables at random. Miro offers Esa a shy smile and writes down the information using a tiny pencil.

When they're halfway around the bathroom section, Klinger sends, _not all swedes love IKEA ESA_

There's a pause where the little typing indicator stays lit, before Klinger adds _but bring candy_. Esa grins to himself, and then goes to rescue Miro from a small group of excited college kids in Stars hats. Next time, they're hiring someone to do this, no matter how much Miro protests. 

*

It was to the surprise of no-one who saw him at camp that Miro started the season in the NHL. He came roaring out of the gate like a supercar, all acceleration and smart plays, embarrassing prospects and veterans alike on each team they played in the pre-season. Esa’s happy to say that to every reporter who asks him, although he kind of wishes they’d stop. He’s seen the embarrassed flush on the back of Miro’s neck whenever someone talks him up.

Miro’s quiet as they prepare for the home opener, looking around with wide eyes like he can’t quite believe he’s there. It's not like Esa doesn't remember what it was like to be a young guy coming to Texas for the first time. Even after a year in Cedar Park, he's pretty sure he spent more time in Nemo's sauna than at his own apartment that first year he was up with the big club, craving the familiarity of that little taste of home. Miro is getting it all at once, culture shock of Dallas and the NHL both. He doesn’t say much even within the little Finnish enclave they’ve carved out in the corner of the d-men stalls. It’s Roope’s NHL debut too, but he’s got a few years in the A under his belt. He’s the opposite of Miro, giving a non-stop commentary on everything that’s happening, chirping in a horrible mix of Finnish and English and generally getting in everyone’s way.

“Oh, go fix your fucking hair,” Honks snaps eventually, on the edge of genuinely annoyed. Being scratched for the first game of the season hasn’t done anything for his mood.

Esa throws his arms around both of their shoulders. “Boys. You’re in an NHL dressing room. You’re living every Finnish kid’s dream right now. Fucking enjoy it.” He grins. “But Hine, fuck off now, ok?”

Roope laughs and goes.

After he’s gone, Esa bumps shoulders with Honks and says, quietly, “Hey, you’ll be in next time.”

“Maybe,” Honks says.

“Finnish mafia,” Esa says. “This is our year.”

From his spot on Esa's other side, Klinger says, loudly, “So much Finnish going on this season, eh?”

Esa’s misspent youth, or at least his misspent highschool Swedish classes, come in handy sometimes. He picks the rudest words he knows, and Klinger’s retort is lost under Janny’s raucous laughter.

*

Five minutes into the second, Jamie puts a pass right on Esa’s tape and Esa sends it across to where he just _knows_ Klinger is accelerating up the ice. The lamp lights, the crowd roars, and Esa slams Klinger into the glass in a hug.

“Fuck yeah,” he yells into Klinger’s delighted face, and feels twin thumps as Jamie and Segs join the celly.

“Top pair, baby,” Klinger says, his lips brushing Esa’s ear. “Nice fucking pass, bud.”

It’s the third goal in a minute and a half, and the Yotes can’t answer. They get Bish the shutout.

“Not bad for a first game,” Esa says to Miro as they head off the ice. 

“That was amazing,” Miro gushes. Winning is apparently what it takes to loosen up that mask of seriousness. “Fuck. Your assist was so good. I hope every game is like that.”

Esa laughs, and peels off his gear to a soundtrack of Miro recounting every one of his shifts tonight. There’s no need to remind him to save his energy for the other 81 games. He’ll learn that soon enough.

***

Midway through November, Esa finds himself playing without a regular d-partner. Klinger’s hand is, to use the technical term, _fucked_, and it’s going to be weeks before he’s back. Esa hadn’t quite understood how much he and Klinger did without actively speaking about it, until he was passing to open ice, having to readjust expectations, and trying to make things click with first Honks and then Miro and Honks again. Monty and Bones want him to shoot more, but he can’t seem to find the net, and he’s not the only one. There’s frustration simmering throughout the d-corps, and Esa doesn’t know how to fix it other than by playing his game and hoping for the best.

Roope gets called back up for the New York trip after a stint down in Cedar Park, and he comes in ready to play like he’s got something to prove. That attitude feels infectious, and somehow, when they hit the ice, Esa and Honks are finally, _finally_ clicking again the way they used to.

The game comes together. Roope scores his first NHL goal. Esa scores, and then scores again.

His smile feels face-splitting as he holds his arms open for Honks to crash into.

“Fuck yeah!” Honks whoops. “You said this was our year.”

“That’s why you should always listen to your elders,” Esa says.

“You’re barely older than me,” Honks grumbles, but he’s smiling when he settles next to Esa on the bench.

*

The good mood from winning lasts right through the team dinner. Esa and Honks sit together, drinking beer and reminiscing about the old days in progressively louder Finnish until Polak leans across the table to tell them to get a room.

“We should all be thinking about getting a room,” Spezz says, drawing a few good-natured groans and boos. “Good game tonight, boys. Same again tomorrow.”

They meander back to the hotel, and it’s not until they’re in the lobby that Honks thinks to ask, “Hey, what happened to Hine and the _wunderkind_?”

The Finnish yelling that greets them when they step out of the elevator sort of answers that question. Esa can’t hear every word, but there are definitely some choice insults being slung from both sides.

Esa exchanges a glance with Honks, who shrugs and says, “You’re on your own, elder. Go mentor them.”

“Fuck,” Esa says, watching Honks disappear into his room. He steels himself and knocks on the rookies’ door.

The yelling immediately stops. Esa taps his foot for the fifteen seconds it takes before a sheepish-looking Miro cracks the door a few centimetres. His face is mottled red and he looks as though he’s been crying.

“Oh,” he says, pulling the door further open. “Uh. Hi, Esa.”

“Hi,” Esa says drily. “Can I come in?”

The room is a disaster zone strewn with clothes, but it’s hard to say whether that’s related to the argument or just the way the rookies are. There’s a broken mug lying on the dresser, surrounded with congealing coffee. Roope is sitting on one of the beds, his long legs curled up to his chest in a posture that reads defensive. He turns his face when Esa tries to catch his eye. Miro sinks down to the other bed and runs his hands through his hair.

“Does one of you want to explain what is going on?” Esa says, in his calmest voice. Christ. What a mess. He’d really thought the rookies were the best of friends.

“We, uh,” Miro says. He trails off.

“It was just a dumb argument,” Roope says. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Miro makes a strange, strangled sound, but nods when they both turn to look at him. “Yeah, sorry, Esa.”

“Was this over something the team needs to know about?”

“No,” Roope says quickly. “It was just a stupid fight. Miro was being annoying. We’re done now.” 

“Okay,” Esa says slowly. “Is this finished? Does one of you need to trade rooms with Honks?”

“No, he’ll be mad,” Miro says. “We can—we won’t be a problem.”

“There’s a lot of roadies in a season,” Esa says. “It’s easier if you can learn to compromise with each other.”

Roope barks a laugh. “Yeah, okay. Good talk, Cap.”

“Come on, Hine. I know you know all this, but you have to see how it looks when I can hear you guys yelling all the way down the hall. If you fight each other in public, you make it everyone’s problem. Would you rather have me in here or fucking Coach?” Being careful what you say in public was high on the list of bullet points at the ‘how not to be a fuck up' seminar a media trainer had given Esa's rookie year. The fact that he still hears guys chirp Jamie about 'mox bunching' on the ice sometimes made that a lesson Esa had found worth learning. 

“Right,” Roope says, then adds in English, “_Optics_.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Esa says. He sighs. “Okay. Whatever. If I leave you alone, can you go the fuck to sleep without killing each other?”

“Yes,” Miro says earnestly.

Esa’s privately not certain he agrees, but all he says is, “Goodnight, boys. Congrats on the goal, Hine.”

He lies awake for a long time after he gets into his room, listening, just in case.

*

Things between the rookies are strained for the rest of the roadie. They get handed two tough losses before they get to go home.

They touchdown in Dallas at an ungodly hour of the night, but the next morning, instead of any of the chores he needs to do, Esa finds himself driving to Klinger’s place almost on autopilot. He sits in the car for a couple minutes and startles when Klinger taps on the window with his good hand.

“You look like shit,” Klinger says, muffled through the glass. “Were you just going to sit there all day? Instead of, I don’t know, going home? Sleeping?”

“Fucking _rookies_,” Esa says, with feeling, and Klinger’s laughter somehow loosens the stressed knot in Esa’s chest.

A cup of coffee dissolves it the rest of the way. They sit out on Klinger’s deck, a plate of cake–“_You_ _can't_ fika_ without cake, Esa!”–_between them. Klinger chats for a while, about his plans for the yard, about his physio, about his brother’s season in Switzerland, but when Esa’s ready to vent, Klinger lets him.

“Take them out for dinner,” is the eventual advice. “Buy them some decent steaks and build up some, y’know, some fucking camaraderie again or whatever the fuck it’s called.”

“That’s not actually a completely shitty idea,” Esa says. Klinger rolls his eyes and retaliates by stealing the last cardamom bun.

***

Christmas comes and goes and they’re still winning more than they’re losing. Roope’s up again and he seems to be sticking this time. Since Esa took the rookies out for dinner, they’ve been back to their old friendship, laughing together and hanging all over each other constantly like a pair of puppies. Klinger’s back in his stall at Esa’s side, a prime spot for chirping about everything from his wrister to his unfortunate lack of teeth. Esa even finds the time to pick up when they swing through St Louis, a guy whose Grindr profile promises he’s a Cardinals fan with great abs who doesn’t give a shit about hockey. The only slight wrinkle is Honks, who plays like shit for four losses in a row, and then sits in the press box for the rest of January. It’s hard to watch his oldest friend here struggle.

Miro spends a weekend at the All-Star Game, taking the time to text Esa an increasingly incoherent series of drunken selfies with Rantanen and Aho. Esa spends the weekend relaxing at home, because he shouldn’t be 24 years old and feeling this bone tired. He reads Miro’s excited messages with pride, mixed with a twinge of envy. On Sunday afternoon, Honks shows up unannounced.

Esa opens the door, takes one look at him and says, “Sauna?” There’s no need for more discussion.

The sauna was top of the list of must-haves Esa had given to his real estate agent when he got this place. It’s been handy this season to have the rookies over regularly to bathe, a way to keep an eye on them while keeping their homesickness at bay, the way Nemo had for him.

He and Honks don’t talk for a long while once they’re settled. Esa closes his eyes, letting the warmth and the steam drag the aches out of his muscles. Finally, right as Esa is considering whether it would be more prudent to leave before he falls asleep, Honks says, “I’m pretty sure I’m going to get traded.”

“That really sucks, man.” There’s not a lot more that Esa can say to that; he’s also pretty sure Honks is going to get traded. When Honks doesn’t say anything else, Esa asks, “Do you want me to give advice or are you just here to vent?”

“Vent,” Honks says, so Esa bites his tongue and listens.

*

Bish and Dobby put the team on their collective backs and drag them through February into March. The coaches write the standings on the whiteboard every game and the whole locker room feels like its balanced on a knife edge, acutely aware of the wildcard battle they’re in. The last time Esa saw the playoffs, he was a black ace watching from the sidelines as the Stars collapsed against the Blues. This year he wants to play.

They win, and they lose, and they win again, eking out points against the division. Despite the late season grind Miro never seems to get tired, even as his minutes creep up toward 28 a night. Esa’s surprised, then, when Miro knocks on his hotel room door one night on the road, looking drained but strangely defiant.

“Can I talk to you?” Miro says, tapping his fingers on the doorframe.

“Of course,” Esa says. He steps aside to let Miro in, gesturing to a chair that Miro doesn’t take. He paces in front of the TV instead, and a sense of dread starts to prickle at the edges of Esa’s consciousness. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Miro says. “Well, maybe no. I don’t know. I want to tell you something and I don’t know whether we’re going to be okay afterwards.” He fiddles with the hem of his hoodie, eyes darting toward the door.

“We’ll be okay,” Esa says. He’s certain about that. “You’re my rookie. I have your back.”

“Are you sure you want to have the back of a gay guy?” Miro says, in a rush, and oh. _Oh_.

“Yes,” Esa says firmly. He bites his lip before adding, “Because I am too.”

“Fuck,” Miro says, and Esa can hear the breath he’d been holding leave him in a rush. “Really?”

“Yeah. I never told anyone on the team before you.”

“That’s kind of what I came here for,” Miro says. “I wanted to tell the guys.”

“Shit,” Esa says. That’s probably not the mentorship-approved thing to say right now but it’s what he’s got. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Miro says. “I wasn’t even sure about telling you.”

“Maybe don’t do anything rash,” Esa says, because the idea of Miro, talented Miro, Miro the baby superstar, watching his career tank because of homophobic bullshit is kind of turning his stomach.

“More rash than sleeping with a teammate?” Miro says, apparently without thinking, because even more colour drains out of his face.

“A—no, don’t tell me which teammate,” Esa says. “Fuck.”

“Uh,” Miro says. “Yeah, sorry, pretend I didn’t say that.”

Esa tries very hard to tamp down on the speculative options his brain is providing. “Okay. About telling the guys. That’s a cat you can’t put back into the bag once it’s out. You need to be sure it’s what you want.”

“Okay,” Miro says, and sighs. Esa hesitates for a second or two before opening his arms like he would on the ice. Miro allows himself to be wrapped up in a hug, and if Esa lets it linger a little longer than it might usually have, Miro doesn’t mention it.

“You’re a good rookie,” Esa says when they separate. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Miro says, and makes to leave. He pauses with his hand on the door handle and says, "Oh. You can tell Klinger. That’s okay with me." 

The door clicks shut behind him, and Esa Facetimes Klinger, because he’s not sure what else to do.

“Is this a butt dial or are you seriously calling me from down the fucking hall?” Klinger says. He looks soft and sleepy, lisping a little through the gap in his teeth.

“Shut up, this is important,” Esa says, and spills the whole story.

When he’s done, Klinger says, "He's brave." The picture flickers; Esa can't figure out Klinger's expression. But he's right.

"Yeah," Esa says. He takes a deep breath. "Much braver than I was about this at his age".

"Wait, you mean--"

"Yeah," Esa says again. His voice doesn't even break, which. Small miracles. 

Klinger's quiet for a heartstopping moment and he doesn't meet Esa's eyes. Then he says, "Me too. I mean. Sometimes. I do—with women, too." 

"Cool," Esa says. It's not exactly the most eloquent fucking thing to say when you and your best bud just, apparently, mutually came out to each other, but it's what he's got. 

"Yeah," Klinger says. 

They stay on the line for a long time, just listening to each other breathe.

***

They beat Nashville--if not _easily_, then at least decisively. And then the second round happens and things start going to shit. This is harder than any hockey Esa has ever played in his life. The Blues want to win as much as they do, and they're willing to fight for it. The number of guys who are injured and out is creeping up--and so is the number of guys who are injured and hiding it, gritting their fucking teeth and suiting up anyway. There's something badly wrong with Roope's foot, but Esa's not asking him what it is. He'll let the kid have this much. Esa's minutes are creeping up as well. He’s exhausted. Brittle. Like when a guy leaves his boot on so a break doesn’t stop him finishing the game, he doesn’t want to examine anything too closely, just in case he turns out to be nothing but a mass of bruises contained in a hockey jersey, not a person at all.

And then they lose game seven, and the season is done.

The summer seems to loom ahead of him, longer than he’d been hoping for. After locker cleanout day, most guys go their separate ways. John goes to Worlds. Esa signs an extension to keep him in Dallas for another six years, and watches Finland win a gold medal and the Blues lift the Stanley cup. The Finnish Mafia whatsapp group becomes a graveyard of memes from Roope and dog pictures from Miro, and nothing else. No midnight panics about where to buy Finnish comfort food in Dallas. No questions about apartments or requests to go over tape together. No more of Esa's advice needed. He doesn't know how much he's going to miss that stuff until it's not there.

In the end, it's Esa who gets some good advice for the summer. Right before he left for Bratislava, John had glanced at Esa over his coffee and said, “Bud, you need to push for what you’re worth. Don’t let them use my contract against you.”

Esa had blushed and looked down at the table, not knowing what to say. John was almost hard to look directly at when he was wearing that earnest expression.

He'd added, “You deserve it. The team needs you, and they need to pay you.” And Esa had looked into his warm eyes and kind smile and had almost believed him. 

He still texts John a chirp when Sweden lose to Finland at Worlds, but he sends a sad face as well. He's pretty sure that counts as personal growth.

*

The Liiga alumni game happens in August, and all of Esa's favourite people are there. It's fun to play with guys he'd idolised as a kid, with John and Honks and the rookies at his side. It's good to see Nemo too—Esa probably should apologise to him a lot if he had been anywhere near as annoying as a rookie as Miro and Roope. The only weird thing is that Miro keeps giving Esa these strange sideways looks, like there's something he wants to say but won't come out and say it. But when Nemo asks John when he's flying out and John tells him he's staying at Esa’s place in Helsinki for a couple days, Esa thinks Miro might actually explode.

In the bar after, Esa can't help but slip back into his mentor role, even if Miro has shown he can handle himself. Esa sits down next to him, slides him a beer and asks, “Are you okay? You've been acting kind of weird ever since we got here.”

Miro flushes a little. “I, uh.” He lowers his voice. “Fuck, I’m just going to ask. Is Klinger your boyfriend?”

Whatever Esa had been expecting, it wasn't that. He nearly chokes on his own tongue.

“It's okay if he is,” Miro adds quickly. “I won't tell anyone. I just… it's nice to have a role model. And I want you to be happy.”

“We’re not,” Esa says. “I don't know why you would—"

And then John slides into the seat next to Esa, plasters himself against Esa’s side, and steals a sip of his drink. He follows it up with a beatific grin, looking almost civilised with all his teeth in for once, and says, “So what are you guys talking about?”

Miro gives Esa a significant look and… oh yeah. That kind of stuff.

John starts up a conversation with Miro about something else, and Esa sits back and watches him: the sharp lines of his face, the light in his eyes when he laughs, the elegant way he talks with his hands. Esa is in love with him, he realizes, at the same time he realises this means that he is fucked.

*

Having John in his place after that is some kind of torture. Esa has seen him naked approximately a million times, but a shirtless and sleep-rumpled John blinking at him over breakfast is almost too much.

“Do I have something on my face?” John asks, laughing a little.

Esa flushes and shakes his head no, but he can't help the looks he keeps stealing after that.

“Seriously, Es, what is up with you?” John says. “You're always weird but, like—”

Maybe it's the chirping that makes Esa lose his fucking mind and put his hands on John’s waist, dragging him in for a kiss. But it must be a shared madness, because after a shocked couple seconds, John is kissing him back.

“Miro is going to be such an asshole about this,” Esa mumbles against John’s lips.

“Shut the fuck up,” John says, fondly, and then it's a good long while before either of them feel the need to talk again.


End file.
